What My Husband Did to Me Against the Door That Night

The day had been long. One of those that drag on without asking permission: work, errands, dinner with the kids flitting around the table, baths, bedtime stories. When everything finally fell silent, my husband and I collapsed onto the sofa with our phones in our hands and a shared sluggishness we didn’t even bother to name.

An hour passed, maybe less. I stared at the screen without reading anything, swiping my thumb out of habit. He chuckled softly at some video. The kids had fallen asleep in our bed, sprawled out the way they always do when you leave them unattended for a while. We didn’t have the energy to move them.

“I’m heading up,” I said, getting up from the sofa.

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

I walked barefoot to the bedroom with that strange feeling of not being sleepy and, at the same time, wanting to close my eyes as soon as possible. I stopped in front of the closed door. The wood felt cold even through my pajama top. I rested my hands at chest height, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes for a moment, for no other reason than to listen to the house: the fridge humming downstairs, the hall clock, the distant murmur of a car passing in the street.

Then I heard his footsteps.

He came up the stairs slowly, trying not to make noise for the kids, and I knew it was him by the rhythm alone, without needing to look. He came up behind me. He said nothing. He wrapped one arm around my waist and, with the other hand, moved my hair away from my neck.

The first kiss was almost a brush. Barely lips, barely heat. Enough to raise gooseflesh from the nape of my neck to my shoulder blades.

I lifted my arms over my head and linked my fingers behind his neck. It was a position he recognized, an invitation without words. He took it. He came down my neck with his mouth open, biting just a little, and I felt his warm breath right where my pulse had started racing.

“Slowly,” I whispered. “The kids.”

“Slowly,” he repeated against my skin.

But slowly doesn’t mean stop. His hands slid under the hem of my T-shirt and closed over my breasts. I hadn’t been wearing a bra for a while; I’d left it on the bathroom chair and my pajamas were an old T-shirt that was too thin on me. He noticed at once and his breathing changed.

He squeezed me with his whole palms, unhurried, measuring me. I have large breasts, always have, and he still loses his mind over them like the first time. He held them from underneath, cupping them fully, and squeezed again. My nipples hardened before he even touched them. When he did, it was with the pads of his fingers, drawing circles first and then pinching carefully, just enough to make a breath slip out of me.

“Hush,” he murmured, smiling against my neck.

“You hush.”

He gave one nipple a gentle tug and I had to rest my forehead against the door so I wouldn’t lose my balance. My legs were starting to go weak as if I’d had too much to drink. I could feel my whole body concentrating in one spot between my thighs, a throbbing that hadn’t been there five minutes before and now demanded attention urgently.

I arched back and pushed my ass against him. I wanted to feel him. I wanted to know if he was as worked up as I was. He was. His erection pressed through his trousers and sent a shiver through me as it brushed the curve of my ass. I moved slowly, rubbing myself against him, and heard him suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re going to make me lose my mind,” he said.

“That’s the idea.”

I slid my right hand down my own body, under the T-shirt, until I reached my ribs. I ran my fingers over my stomach and brought them to the breast he wasn’t occupying. I touched myself while he touched me, and the idea of doing it at the same time, of both of us attending to the same body, made me even hotter.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. He took my hand, guided it to the other breast, and whispered:

“This one’s mine too.”

“All yours.”

His free hand changed direction. It slid down my side, traced my hip, and slipped inside the waistband of my pajama pants, but only a little. He pulled them down to mid-butt cheek, just enough for my panties to show. Then he tugged the fabric up, wedging them a little between my ass cheeks, and went back to squeezing me with both hands.

A small moan escaped me. I swallowed it with my mouth closed.

“Hush,” he repeated, amused.

“I can’t.” And it was true.

My hand had gone there on its own. Over my pajamas, I pressed my sex with my palm. I could feel the wetness seeping through the fabric. I was drenched within minutes, and that made me smile in the middle of the trembling. I loved him, still, after so many years. He still did this to me.

I pulled the waistband of my pants aside a little and slid my fingers underneath. My panties were soaked through, completely, as if someone had poured a glass of water over them. I touched myself over the thin cotton and arched into my own hand. I have a shaved pubis, soft, with not a single hair on the lips or the mound, and I love how every caress shows, every pressure, every change in pressure.

He watched me from behind. He wasn’t touching me anymore; he was just breathing hotly against the nape of my neck, letting me do it. I can imagine what he saw: me braced against the door, both hands occupied, one on my breast and the other inside my pants, my hips moving on their own.

“Keep going,” he said softly.

And I did.

I moved the fabric of my panties aside and touched myself directly. I was wet all the way to the entrance. I gathered the moisture with two fingers and carried it up to my clit, coating everything, and then I rubbed in slow, tight circles, exactly the way I needed.

He went back on the offensive. His hands slid down my pants and, with one motion, he pulled them down to my thighs. Then he grabbed my panties and dragged them down with him, leaving them at the same height. I felt the cold hallway air on my soaked cunt and my eyes shut.

“Spread your legs,” he asked.

“I can’t, they’re snagged on the pajamas.”

“Just enough. For me.”

I managed to open them a couple of centimeters, as far as my lowered pants would allow. He knelt behind me. I heard it more than saw it: his knees on the wooden floor, his breathing changing height, his cheek brushing the curve of my ass.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice rough.

“Look ahead. Put your hands on the door.”

He spread my butt cheeks a little more with his palms. Then he parted my lips with his thumbs. I was left fully exposed, shame and desire wrestling in my stomach. I shoved backward without thinking.

The first finger went in without effort. I was so soaked that there was only a welcome shiver. He slid it all the way in, slowly, and stopped there. Then he came out and touched my clit with the pad of his finger, just a little tap, enough to make a sound slip from between my teeth.

“Shh.”

“Yeah, right, shh you.”

He went back to my entrance and, this time, it was two fingers. He moved them slowly, opening me from the inside, and with his free hand he held one ass cheek, squeezed it, tried to bite into it. I rested my forehead against the door again and breathed deeply, trying not to make noise, trying to hold out.

He sped up. His fingers went in and out of me with a rhythm I knew by heart, the one that could take me right to the edge without letting me fall all the way over. I brought my own hand down to my clit. I rubbed it carefully, gathering the wetness from my entrance with my pinky and bringing it back up. Two hands on me, his and mine, and it still wasn’t enough.

At one point, he took my hand and guided it downward. He made me put my own fingers in alongside his. Four fingers at once inside me, his and mine tangled together, moving slowly. I could feel myself filling, opening wider than usual, the air leaving my chest.

“Stop,” I panted. “Stop or I’m going to come.”

He pulled his hand out. I pulled mine out. I brought it back to my clit without pausing. I needed something that wasn’t inside or I was going to collapse against the door.

I thought he was going to put his fingers back in. He didn’t. He spread my ass cheeks with both hands and, without warning, ran his tongue over my anus. It was a quick caress, almost shy, and even so my breath caught. I leaned back a little more, offering myself, and he understood. He repeated the gesture, this time slower, tracing a circle with the tip.

“Please,” I whispered, and I didn’t even know exactly what I was asking for.

He slipped two fingers back into my cunt while keeping his tongue up there. It was too much. It was exactly what I wanted and, at the same time, too much. My legs were shaking. I grabbed the doorframe with both hands so I wouldn’t fall.

And then he got between my legs.

I don’t quite know how he managed it with his pants halfway down, but he did. He lay on his back, with his head right under my sex, and I felt his breath exactly where I needed it. He licked me from bottom to top, one long, slow, deliberate stroke. Then he stayed on my clit.

I held out for a minute, maybe two. The time it took him to find the rhythm, to seal his lips around me, to suck the way he knew I liked while two fingers filled me from within.

His hands moved underneath to hold my ass and guide me against his mouth. I stopped thinking. I grabbed his hair with one hand. With the other, I pinched one nipple until it hurt a little, just enough so the pleasure wouldn’t consume me whole. My hips moved on their own against his face.

“I can’t,” I warned, voiceless. “I can’t.”

He held me tighter and sped up. I felt everything gathering right there, right at that point, and at the same time I felt like I was about to explode everywhere. I bit the back of my hand to keep from crying out. I lifted my head, opened my mouth, and let out a muffled, stifled moan that got trapped between my palm and my teeth.

I came in his mouth. I came hard, long, with my forehead pressed to the wood and my knees on the verge of buckling. He didn’t pull away until I felt the last tremor, until my hand stopped tugging at his hair.

When he got up, it was hard for me to peel myself off the door. My legs were weak and my face was hot. I pulled my panties and pants back up clumsily, laughing softly, my pulse still out of control.

He turned me toward him. I kissed him on the mouth without thinking, slowly, deeply, his taste mingling with mine. I slipped my arms around his neck and let him hold me for a minute, listening to his breathing.

“Thank you,” I murmured against his lips.

“Thank you.”

“Another night it’s your turn. I promise.”

“I’ll be keeping track.”

He opened the door without making a sound. The kids were still asleep, sprawled out, oblivious to everything. We slipped into bed through the gaps they left, each of us on one side, and found each other’s hands over the sheets.

I fell asleep like that, with my fingers tangled in his, thinking that tomorrow, sometime during the day, I was going to look at him a certain way from the other side of the kitchen, and the two of us would know.